Riding The Rails
by girl in the glen
Summary: Early in the partnership, a simple train ride serves to strengthen the bonds between two agents. Originally posted on LJ as part of PicFic on Section VII.


The sounds of steel on steel made Illya Kuryakin flinch, his system still sensitive from the THRUSH drugs he'd been subjected to. He felt as though the sound was coming from his own bones, scraping against bone with no cartilage to ease the movement.

Napoleon Solo was concerned about his partner, the pallid complexion a reminder of the treatment the young Russian had received at the hands of his captors.

"You look like you're about to jump out of your skin, Illya. Should I be worried?" The senior member of this new team wasn't accustomed to having to worry about other people. He had made a concerted effort to work alone prior to being paired with the new Soviet addition to UNCLE, but those days seemed forever behind him now.

"I am fine. I... it is only that...' Illya faltered in his attempt to appear indestructible.

"Yeah, you look fine. Sort of like that satrapy looks fine now that we've blown it to smithereens.' Napoleon edged a little closer to the smaller man, taking his arm as the two boarded the train that would take them to the UNCLE offices in Chicago. Once there the medical team could take charge of the shaggy haired agent and examine him thoroughly.

The train into Chicago would be an overnight trip, with a pullman car at their disposal and the Old Man's blessing as an added bonus. Kuryakin couldn't be seen in the condition he was now in, and if there were any THRUSH about it was important to stay behind closed doors. It wouldn't do to have an altercation aboard a train filled with innocent people.

Napoleon hailed a porter who guided them past other passengers seated in the day cars, back to the pullman car where they would be staying. It wasn't the best on this train, but it had two bunks and a lavatory that would suffice. Napoleon had grown accustomed to less than stellar accommodations, and this one was a cut above some he'd seen recently.

Illya continued to allow his partner to steer him in the right direction, something that was a clear indication of how disoriented he truly felt. This was only their second assignment as partners, and if this was any indication of how things would go from now on, he was certainly not impressed with his odds of survival or not being a pin cushion for some mad as a hatter THRUSH scientist.

Napoleon took note of the people they passed, their clothing and the expressions on each face. He and Illya had managed to destroy the drug producing satrapy with exceptional aplomb, something the Russian seemed to do with ease. Perhaps his talents hadn't been exaggerated, although the propensity to end up damaged in some way was a little more than one would like. Napoleon liked it smooth... in and out with little interaction that could cause him bodily harm. Kuryakin seemed to have just the opposite technique, and if this latest mission was any indication Solo felt certain he would spend a lot of his time getting the wiry little Russian out of trouble.

That same Russian was weighing a little heavier on Napoleon's left arm at the moment.

"Hold on, Illya, we're just a few steps away..." Napoleon tipped the porter and nearly flung his sagging partner onto the lower bunk as the door was closing. He landed with a thud and something in Russian that didn't sound like 'thank you'.

"All right now...' Napoleon turned around to face Illya and was met with a gun pointed at his midsection.

"What are you doing?" It was a legitimate question. Illya's eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, but his hand was steady as he held the gun on his stunned partner.

"Perhaps the better question is, what are you doing? And who are you?" Great. This was just great. Not only Illya still drugged and dazed, he had a gun and no memory of who Napoleon was.

"Illya, tovarisch... It's me, Napoleon. I'm your partner." The blond eyed the other man suspiciously, his blue eyes wary of him.

"You are American. How can I have a partner who is American?" A reasonable question, and one that had been asked by numerous people.

"We work for the U.N.C.L.E., for Mr. Waverly. You were captured by THRUSH and they fed you some very bad stuff, you're still under the influence of their drugs." The cold stare didn't waver, but Napoleon noted a small tremor in the man's hand.

"Illya, you need to get some sleep, and let this drug wear off. Check you inside pocket for your credentials. Your UNCLE I.D. is in there." The affected agent was trying to hold himself together but something else was at work here. Illya felt for his wallet, withdrew it and held it open for Napoleon to withdraw the card.

"See, here it is and there you are. We're partners, Illya. Don't you remember anything?" The blond waivered, his concentration competing with the roaring pain in his head. As he tried to absorb the information in front of him a wave of nausea overcame him, propelling him into the small bathroom for a siege of sickness. He dropped the gun on his way to his redemption.

Illya didn't care who he was, who the other man was or what he was doing on the train. Sleep. He wanted sleep and relief from the nausea. The evening and night were spent trying to simply live through the misery until at last the first rays of sunshine announced the new day.

Napoleon had managed to sleep in increments rather than a good, full night's rest. Illya was up and down managing his distress, apparently no longer concerned about guns and identity. By the time the sun came up the train was rolling into Chicago's Union Station; the bustle of passengers and crew could be heard from beyond the cabin door.

Napoleon was already dressed as Illya emerged from the bathroom, his face an ashen shade of pale flesh, his hair standing on end in a manner only slightly less controlled than normal.

"Illya?" Napoleon wasn't sure his partner was back to himself, so decided to proceed with caution.

"Yes Napoleon, I am in my right mind. I believe the drugs are all completely out of my system now, thanks to an entire night of ... Well, they are gone." Napoleon merely nodded his head, unsure that all was completely well. Illya liked like hell.

"Be that as it may, we're going directly to Medical when we get to headquarters. And that, my friend, is an order from your immediate superior." A sigh from the harried blond left no doubt that he was unable to resist whatever orders came. The only thing he wanted now was a bed without wheels and enough water to drown in. Cold water. Lots of it.

"I am fine.' At the look on Napoleon's face Illya decided he must look pretty bad.

"All right, I am less than fine. But I can make it into headquarters, the sooner the better."

"You're not going to keep throwing up, are you?" Napoleon wondered about an expense report that included a ruined taxi cab. Illya shot him a look that quieted any additional comments about it.

"Just get us a taxi. I am fine."

Fine or not, Napoleon and his new partner made their way to UNCLE's Chicago Headquarters and were met by a congenial team of medical professionals who pulled the Russian into an exam room and didn't let him out until they were satisfied that he was no longer at risk.

Napoleon reported in to his boss that they were safe and ready to make the rest of their journey home.

"Ah, Mr. Solo. How is Mr. Kuryakin? No longer delusional I hope."

"No sir, he seems to be back to himself. Medical has him, but I have been assured he should be ready to travel tomorrow morning."

"Very well. How would you rate his performance on this assignment? I understand the satrapy was effectively destroyed."

"Yes sir, Mr. Kuryakin seems to have quite a talent for blowing things sky high. He, uh... well, there was quite a bit of expertise in how he did it, sir. I believe his skills will be well used."

Waverly paused, drawing on his pipe as he considered the new Soviet acquisition.

"Very well, then. Mr. Solo, I'll be expecting you back here tomorrow afternoon. Do try and keep an eye on your partner, make certain he isn't showing signs of those drugs. He's all yours now, Mr. Solo. Take care of him. Good bye."

Take care of him? Napoleon wondered about that, but then he figured any good partner would always take care of his own.

"Will do, Mr. Waverly. Will do."


End file.
